


Princesses (Don't) Marry Kitchen Boys

by izloveshorses



Category: Anastasia (1997), Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally
Genre: (Hermes voice) Anya was a hungry young girl, Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Missing Scene, One Shot, and is really good at it, but he had a gift to give :), dmitry was a poor boy, headcanon: dmitry cooks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:53:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27428980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izloveshorses/pseuds/izloveshorses
Summary: 5 times on their journey Dmitry gets to show off his cooking skills. Since anything that doesn't come from a can is a rare luxury in their current situation, Anya is begrudgingly impressed.
Relationships: Dimitri | Dmitry/Anya | Anastasia Romanov (Anastasia 1997 & Broadway)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 70





	Princesses (Don't) Marry Kitchen Boys

**Author's Note:**

> something fun for y'all after this wild week! all Dmitry's pov this time, hope u enjoy! <3

Dmitry was more ecstatic than he’d ever been in his life.

Okay. That was a stretch. But honestly, he didn’t remember being this excited about anything since he was a child, before his father died or maybe even before his mother left. He raced through the doors of the old boarded up palace and didn’t even bother kicking off his snow-covered boots before scrambling into the kitchen. 

“Vlad!” he called, “you’re never gonna believe what I got at the market today!”

“Is it a ticket out of here?” It was only Anya’s voice as she emerged in the doorway. She probably just got back from her shift, too, since she looked exhausted and was already aiming an annoyed glance at his boots. Whatever. He smacked his package onto the counter with glee and grinned. She only shrugged. “How am I supposed to know what that is?”

“It’s beef!” He opened the crinkly paper to reveal a hefty slab of meat.  _ “Real _ beef, fresh, not from a can.”

But she still managed to look unimpressed. “Did you spend all of our money?”

“Of course not. The butcher said it’s just a scrap, but I made a pretty fair trade.”

“Maybe there’s something wrong with it.”

“You’re missing the point. Do you realize how rare it is for people like us to find a piece of meat like this? In the middle of winter?” As he spoke he found an old pan and turned on the one burner on the stove that still worked. They still had a little drop of oil left, so he poured the rest of that into the pan to let it start heating up while he rinsed the meat under the sink.

She sighed and crossed her arms. “Well, I can’t cook it, so how are we going to eat it?”

“I can.”

“You?” She laughed. “With what?  _ This _ kitchen?”

He turned off the water and set the meat onto a cutting board. Then he crossed his arms, mirroring her. “You’d be surprised how much of this kitchen still works. And we’ve got a little bit of seasoning in the pantry.”

“How do I know you won’t ruin it?”

He laughed. “Ask Vlad. I’ve worked in a kitchen before, I know how to make things taste good, even if we’re limited on ingredients.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Exasperated, he stepped away and continued his work. “Fine, you don’t have to eat it, but there’ll be plenty.”

The meat sizzled on the stove and her stomach audibly growled. “No thanks.” 

That’s when Vlad made his entrance. “Smells good, what is it?”

“Beef,” Dmitry called over his shoulder. The meat was seared nicely on one side so he carefully flipped it onto the other with some makeshift prongues, turned the heat down to simmer, and moved onto finding whatever would taste good as a sauce.  _ Bingo.  _ There was an unopened can of broth in the pantry from the last time they’d made a measly portion of soup, perfect. He mixed it with some of the dried seasonings he found and poured it over the meat. “Anya would rather starve than eat whatever I make, so there’ll be plenty for the two of us.”

Instead of reading his tone Vlad only laughed. “You don’t want to miss out, my dear, if Dmitry’s good for anything he’s good for feeding us in this tasteless life.”

“No thanks,” she said again. 

“See?”

“Oh would you grow up?” Vlad pinched the bridge of his nose. Dmitry started to protest but Vlad interrupted. “You, quit instigating things. Anya, you need to eat.” Now they were both protesting incoherently over one another and Vlad shushed them again. After a long sigh he muttered, “You know your problem— a problem that’s become  _ my _ problem? You’re both so similar.”

“No we’re not!” Dmitry’s point was muddied when he and Anya had the exact same exclamation. And crossed their arms in the exact same instant. He groaned in embarrassment and rubbed the back of his neck.

“I’m not your parent, and you’re definitely not my children. Stop giving me migraines and let me enjoy my dinner in peace tonight.”

“Fine.” Anya stepped through the kitchen doorway. “I have some studying to do, anyway.”

“Fine,” Dmitry muttered, earning a glare from both Vlad and Anya. 

Later, after Vlad and Dmitry slurped their meal at the table in silence and Anya was off doing god-knows-what, he started cleaning up the kitchen, scraping away whatever he hadn’t licked off his plate into the sink. He sighed. He could easily offer the remaining serving to Vlad, or he could save it for himself like his stomach was screaming for him to do, but something deeper in his gut said that was wrong, too. Instead he scooped up whatever was left from the pan into a bowl and carried it out into the living area.

She was there. Next to the fire, surrounded by books and biographies and family trees, barely sparing him a glance. He wordlessly set the bowl down in front of her and didn’t give her time to look up before walking away. Maybe the meal would end up a mess on the floor, or maybe tossed into the fire, but at least he tried.

But before he went to bed, he found her in the same spot, curled up and asleep under a worn wool blanket, the bowl scraped clean. 

* * *

There weren’t many things that terrified Dmitry. 

He probably should’ve been scared of more things. Bolsheviks should’ve scared him, and in a way they did, but really he just thought they were the real cowards, unable to comprehend their idiocy. That lack of fear was probably what landed him into trouble in the first place. He was afraid of what had happened to his father, but that was more distant and abstract than anything else.

But jumping off of a moving train? That easily moved up to number one on his list. 

After a long string of curses and an even longer march in the dark, they landed in an inn somewhere in Poland, too exhausted to eat or even shed their shoes before collapsing into bed. Then they continued their trek all the way through Germany. The food was pretty good, but Dmitry still missed the classic Russian dishes. To remedy this he went to the market instead of a pub and spent some time in the kitchen of their inn. 

But when he got back to the room it was only Vlad organizing their few belongings left. He eagerly accepted what Dmitry offered, but when Dmitry didn’t settle down next to him, Vlad sighed. “Anya found a staircase to the roof, in case you were wondering.”

Sure enough, when Dmitry made his way up the steps, she was seated on the ground, gazing at the sky, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. 

He dropped next to her. “What are you doing up here? It’s freezing.”

“It’s warmer than it was last night.” She still kept her eyes locked upwards.

“True.”

“It’s just…” she sighed. “Do you miss it?”

He looked up at the stars and crossed his legs. “So much.”

“It was never really home to me, but… it was the closest thing I had to a home.”

His heart squeezed. He knew what she meant, probably more than she realized. “I have a surprise for you.”

She finally looked at him, brow furrowed in confusion. “What?”

He held out the dish he brought from the kitchen for her to take. Raising an eyebrow skeptically, she peeked inside the lid, and let out a yelp of excitement. “Where did you find pelmeni here?”

“I made it.”

“From scratch?”

“Yeah.” She must not have noticed the layers of flour caked into his hands.

“It smells so good,” she muttered, already pulling the lid completely off. He handed her a fork and they both dug into the dumplings. “Is that what you were doing all night?” she asked through a full mouth. “Bartering with the cook downstairs to let you use the kitchen?”

He shrugged. “Something like that. I traded a few hours of washing dishes for a few hours of meal prep.”

A few minutes of comfortable silence passed as they chewed and stared out at the little village below. “Who taught you how to cook?”

“My dad,” he finished his last bite and set his fork on the ground before leaning back on his hands. “He worked in a kitchen before… well. When I was a kid he would always make the best stroganoff. And my first and last real job was in a kitchen. Before I fell into a life of crime.” 

She giggled. “Well, I’m glad you learned from somewhere because this was delicious.”

She was looking over at him, eyes clear and blue and bright, and he had to look away and clear his throat. “It was no trouble.”

“Even if it wasn’t, I appreciate it.” She wiped her hands off and set the lid back on top of the empty dish before rising to her feet, using his shoulder for balance. He studied the toes of his boot until the warmth of her hand was gone an instant later. “It’s getting cold, are you coming?”

He smiled up at her. “I’ll head down in a minute.”

She raised her brow and lowered her hand out to him. He relented with a sigh and accepted it, pulling himself up and dusting off his pants. He offered to take the dishes but she insisted, looking up at him with those doe eyes that made his heart hurt, so he let her lead the way, and let himself think about how he wouldn’t mind sharing a plate with her again. 

* * *

“You haven’t looked this miserable since before we left Russia.”

Anya sighed. “I’m not miserable, I’m just… tired.”

“You mean you can get tired?” Dmitry teased. She laughed a little but she still wore a troubled expression, a line between her eyebrows, picking at her plate. They had been in Paris for only a few days now and spent every single one of them hopping clubs and blowing as much money as possible. That meant new clothes, nice hotels, good food. They were living the dream. Except… “But seriously, something’s on your mind.”

“I don’t know, I think I just…” She set her fork down next to her nearly full plate. He had to lean in to hear her over the crowd and the music. “I think I need to eat something else.”

“Like what?”

She paused to think. “Remember when you made blinis?”

He grinned. Those were easy. “Does that sound good?”

“Yeah, but where would you make them?”

“I have an idea, but I’ll need your help.” He rose from his seat and held out his hand to her.

She looked at it, hesitating. “What about Vlad?”

He shrugged. “He can have some blinis when he gets back. If there are any left.”

She smiled and took his hand, warm and soft, and the two of them were on their way. At their hotel he watched as Anya and the chef bantered back and forth for a good five minutes with loud French words and expressive hands before the chef finally sighed in defeat. 

“What did you tell him?” Dmitry whispered after they were granted access into the kitchen. 

“That we’d let him try some.”

He laughed. “Fair enough.” 

They wasted no time gathering the necessary ingredients. Unlike any other time Dmitry took over a kitchen, Anya was there to help, discussing what the toppings should be and mixing the batter, buttering them up once they were off the griddle. They watched the batter sizzle before Dmitry took the plunge and flipped them. The key to these was timing— a lot of waiting, a lot of watching, when it was suddenly time to act. 

He glanced down at her and swallowed. She was standing close enough for him to smell her shampoo, to hear her stomach growl, to see her chignon loosened from their quiet chaos. At one point he’d shedded his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves and loosened his tie, while Anya had kicked off her heels, the soft silk of her dress swishing as she walked. Finally they cleaned their mess, brushing hands in the sink, and left behind two blinis drizzled in honey for the chef as promised, before making their way upstairs to their suite.

On the sofa in the living space they quietly carved away the pile of blinis they’d made. “So,” he started, swallowing his bite, “what’s really bothering you?”

She sighed and set her plate on her lap. “I think I’m a little nervous about… what’s coming.”

He blinked. “About… the ballet?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know! What if I mess up?”

“You won’t.”

“What if I do?”

“You won’t,” he insisted, shifting so he was facing her, “but if you do, we’ll be fine, because we made it this far, right?”

“I guess.” She looked down at her lap. There was a crumb on the corner of her mouth and it took all of his willpower to resist kissing it away. “I just don’t want you to have wasted your time.”

“I know I haven’t.” 

Her eyes locked onto his and he hoped she couldn’t read his mind like he sometimes suspected she could. He was thinking about kissing her again and maybe actually following through with it this time when, of course, Vlad decided to arrive. “There you are!”

He busied himself with the rest of his blinis. Vlad stood in front of the sofa. “Where did you make— never mind. I’m off to bed. You should be, too, because we’ve got another busy day tomorrow.”

“We know, Vlad,” Dmitry said quietly. Just one more day and then he’d have to say goodbye.

* * *

Dmitry couldn’t sleep. Not after last night. 

Instead of sitting in bed and watching the sun rise, he got up and threw on some mismatched clothing and went outside. The city was still unfamiliar to him but maybe the fresh air would clear his head. 

It didn’t. He did find a market on his way back, though, and managed to convince the chef to let him into the kitchen again— with the promise of more blinis. Dmitry didn’t care what he made. He just needed to stop thinking for a while. 

Eventually Vlad found him. “I thought you might be hiding here.”

Dmitry didn’t deny he was hiding. “I thought you were with Lily.”

“I was. But I knew you two would need a chaperone, so I came back.” He nibbled on one of the blinis Dmitry had made. “No need to be nervous, my boy! We taught her well.”

His knuckles whitened as his grip tightened on the spatula. “It’s… it’s not… I’m fine. She’ll be fine.”

“No more starving on the streets for you.”

“It’s not about that anymore, Vlad.”

“What do you mean?” 

Dmitry sighed. “She’s really her.”

“That’s the spirit!”

“No! She’s really— we found her.”

Vlad studied him for a minute. “That’s good, though, isn’t it? What does that change?”

“Nothing.” Dmitry clenched his jaw and stared at his hands covered in flour. “We just… we have to get her home. And we can’t mess it up.”

“We will succeed,” Vlad patted his shoulder. “I… tried to warn you—“

“I know,” he shrugged him off. “She’ll have a bigger life than mine, it’s fine. It doesn’t change the fact that we would’ve gone our separate ways no matter what.”

Vlad’s eyes were full of pity and he hated it. “You’ll have to go upstairs eventually.”

Dmitry knew that. He knew he’d have to face her to bring her to her family, just like he knew he would have to say goodbye, because if life had taught him anything it’s that princesses don’t marry kitchen boys.

* * *

Dmitry never minded his early bird habits. 

Often he woke with the sun, watching the world wake up in the haze of mist, loving the feeling of being the first to rise. But lately he was a little annoyed by his restless energy, wishing just once he could enjoy the quiet hours while the light peeked through the blinds on the window, letting himself bask in the stillness for a bit. 

Today wasn’t that day. Oh well. At least he could make a courtesy breakfast. 

By the time the sun was high enough to illuminate the whole kitchen and he was almost finished with his task, Dmitry tiptoed back into the bedroom and quietly set the breakfast tray on the nightstand. The mattress squeaked when he crawled back into bed, brushing the hair away from his wife’s face and kissing her cheek.

“Good morning, darling,” he whispered.

Anya groaned and squeezed her eyes even more shut. “Why can’t you just cuddle me like a normal person?”

He laughed. “Normal people wouldn’t bring you breakfast in bed.”

She sat up so quickly her head smacked against his nose and he fell back against his pillow. Ignoring his perfectly valid complaints of pain she leaned over him to reach for their plates of grenki and fruit. She set it on her lap and dug in, then finally acknowledged him by patting him on the chest and giving him a “thank you, Dima.”

He sighed through the fingers pinching his nose and gave up, leaning on his elbow to join. His head was against her side and he crossed his legs, fork in hand, ready to enjoy his small luxuries, reaching over to his plate in her lap. 

“What time do you have to be at the restaurant?” 

He grinned. His days of bartering in that hotel kitchen paid off— got him a job cooking for the Neva Club. “Day off.”

“So I have you all to myself today?” Her smile was crooked from his perspective, and her arm was reaching over his head, their paths tangling when they attempted to pick at their plates, making them giggle. “That explains this breakfast.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” she swallowed her bite, “when you’re upset or thinking too much, you make mountains of blinis, but when you’re happy you take the time to use up some sweeter ingredients. I know because you always smell like cinnamon after you cook when you’re happy.”

He blinked. Sometimes it was a little scary how well she knew him. “I don’t think even I noticed that.”

She kissed the top of his head. “That’s why you have me.”

His hands were still stained from slicing berries to garnish the plate. Fresh berries. A luxury he never expected for himself. Then again, a home with his own kitchen was never expected, either, and neither was a woman like Anya falling for a guy like him. 

No need to barter for cooking time, no need to trade to provide for her, no deal keeping them strung unwillingly together. No, she chose him every morning, and that was sweeter than whatever he could bake in the kitchen. 


End file.
